American Horror Story - Season 2AU E8 - The White Room
by leaftheweed
Summary: Everyone goes a little nuts sometimes. When you really lose it at Briarcliff, you get put in the white room. Only, the asylum's overcrowded. Padded cells are scarce. The staff has to get real creative when dealing with unruly patients. Strait jackets and exorcisms: Nothing's off limits behind locked doors. And when a notorious serial killer checks in, things get really crazy.
1. Chapter 1 - Picture Perfect

**Early December**

It was easy for Reverend Monsignor Howard to find a photographer. He just sorted through the various cards and slips of paper the media men had stuffed in his hands over the past months. He found one that he recalled had a clean-cut look and seemed less dodgy than others. From there it was a quick phone call and comparing of calendars. Two days later, a team of four people were at Briarcliff, ready to take pictures.

Rather than stage an area to do a photo shoot in, the photographer and his assistants were escorted to each of the patients' rooms to take pictures of them. They shot everyone they were allowed to—they weren't allowed near the high-risk patients—but some proved more photogenic than others.

Most who made it into the final magazine spread only had a single, small, black and white photo: There was one of Mort standing on his head (only his feet were in the picture). There was one of Greta, the toothless old woman who told everyone she was dying. Even Vita got into the magazine, smiling big and drawing with crayons.

Then there were the feature models. They each had their own two-page spread. The photographer had loved Violet, even though she had hated him. The whole time he was in her room, she just gave him dirty looks and hoped he would leave. She didn't want her picture in some magazine about crazy people. Her chances at politics might be shot but she did want a life after Briarcliff. Unfortunately for her, the stand-offish attitude translated beautifully on film.

Heather was a feature as well, personable and waifish with her haunted eyes and skinny frame. She worked well with the photographer; he told her she would do well in a modeling career once she got out of the asylum. He left his card with the staff for her and it was stowed with the cache of personal belongings she wasn't allowed to have during her stay. Her box of things, along with everyone else's boxes, were kept in a basement storage room none of the living patients knew the location of. But Sara knew where it was.

Tate was also featured, though not for the same reason as the girls. Half of his pictures were of him making crazy faces. Those shots came across as goofy but in an adorable way thanks to his good looks. The other half, he looked like he was on the verge of fondling himself, pretending he was Jim Morrison posing for Rolling Stone. Those pictures got him a vicious caning from Sister Jude when the magazine came out, but he managed to smile the whole way through the punishment.

In addition to photos of patients, the crew was allowed a truncated tour of the hospital. They ran black and white shots of people working in the bakery and the laundry. They took pictures in the geriatric ward. They weren't allowed anywhere near the greenhouse, the mill, or the morgue. In the back was a section about the staff of Briarcliff. The doctors were easy to photograph but the religious side of the institute's staff appeared in a group photo; too many of them found it prideful to sit for an individual picture.

The money that came in from the magazine sales helped considerably, both in easing Briarcliff's budget crisis and in easing the Monsignor's conscience about allowing the shoot. The time it took also allowed him to prepare for the exorcism he would be conducting. He knew many exorcisms didn't "take" the first time so he was fortified and ready to do whatever it took, as many times as it took.

He had Sister Jude's assistance. All he needed was a medical doctor present to monitor the girl's health during the procedure—and to provide first aid to anybody in the room that might need it before the ritual was finished.

...

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

Breakfast in Oliver Thredson's basement had quickly become routine. He was a man of habit by nature and moving from the upstairs kitchen to the kitchenette wasn't a big adjustment. Occasionally he had to run upstairs for something and he kept the week's supplies in the big refrigerator up there but in general the transition had been fairly easy.

He liked the comfort of the ritual. He'd taken to sleeping in the bed with Constance, pressed against her side, though he still kept her bound hand and foot. Every morning he'd rise with the alarm clock. He would assist her through a shared shower. Zip ties and a handicap bench sufficed to keep her in place while he washed her. Through it all she kept a rigid silence, neither resisting nor assisting him.

At breakfast he would bind her to a chair at the table and prepare the meal while the morning news played on the small black and white television. They would eat; he would comment on the program. She rarely said anything, not trusting herself not to tear into him. She was waiting, saving it all up. Watching his every move for an opportunity to break free.

For him, it made her easy to manage. He still couldn't trust her so he left nothing to chance. Other women had frustrated him with their tears and cowering. With Constance, it was different. He could tell the stubborn wall he was hitting with her was just that: A wall. He'd seen the same thing with her son and was certain he could break through it, in time—just as he was doing with Tate.

It was incredibly satisfying to know he was repairing a whole family. He even fancied sometimes, late at night when he was drifting off beside her, that one day she and Tate would be his family legitimately. He would have the best of all worlds then.

He was nearly done with his eggs Benedict when the television newscaster's report turned grim.

"A body found last night by police is suspected to be linked to the Bloody Face murders. The victim was found beneath the MacArthur Park bridge. Her clothes were removed and her face is missing. The woman, who is believed to be in her mid-20's, remains unidentified."

Oliver had paused eating to watch the broadcast, hoping for photos or footage, but the program stayed on the newscaster and featured a white rectangle with a blank-faced silhouette where they would usually run a picture of the suspected killer. They had no idea who they were looking for. It made Thredson's confidence soar.

"If the woman is indeed linked to the other murders, that makes her the fifth victim of Bloody Face," the serious-faced anchorman said.

Oliver looked over at Constance and pushed his thick glasses up. "Don't worry, honey," he said, when he saw her watching the TV. "She's old news. I promise you, I've stopped seeing other women since you moved in."

She shifted her attention to him and stared. Then she barked a sharp laugh. "How considerate."

He smiled, ignoring the sarcasm that laced her words. "Only the best for you, my dear," he said and lifted his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice to her.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I know I just ended **Harvest** this week but I wanted to get this rolling already. The insanity can't be contained. In the show, Bloody Face only killed 3 people; Thredson only was attributed with one of those murders (and another kidnapping/rape). I thought I'd make Bloody Face more prolific this time around. Earn his killer moniker.

Next time: It's visitation day!


	2. Chapter 2 - Violet's Visit

...

It had been a month since Ben and Vivien saw their daughter. Though they both worked at the asylum, neither had been permitted to see her, so her appearance in the visitation room was a shock. Ben didn't even recognize her at first. She was so underweight and bedraggled, she looked like a homeless person shuffling up in that baggy asylum dress.

Her hair was stringy and she hadn't bothered to brush it back from her face. Vivien quickly did and was worried when she saw the dark circles under Violet's eyes. "Oh, sweetie," she breathed and had to resist the urge to hug her. Visitation rules required patients keep a certain amount of physical distance from visitors.

"Vi?" Ben said, sitting forward.

He almost rose but Violet slipped away from her mother and dropped into a chair at the table before he could. She used her fists to prop her chin and peered at her parents.

"Hi," she said, a smile touching the corner of her mouth. It felt like longer than a month to her. It felt like a year. A lifetime.

Her parents both reached for her and she grudgingly lowered her hands so they could each take one. She wanted to be happy to see them but she wasn't. She didn't know why. It wasn't their fault that they couldn't visit sooner. If anything, it was hers for not following the asylum's arbitrary rules better. Maybe it was the drugs fueling the apathy.

"The doctor said you're making great progress," Ben said encouragingly as he stroked her hand.

"Great," Violet said. "In no time they'll have me sane and ready to stand trial."

Her parents exchanged a glance then Vivien tried to smile. "That probably won't happen. The courts don't want to put a teenage girl in jail. If you follow the program, chances are, they'll just give you some sort of probation. Outpatient care—"

Violet gave a short laugh. "Just what I want to do with my life: Be Briarcliff's off-site slave. I've seen how that works. No, thank you." She pulled her hands away and folded her arms.

Her parents looked at each other again. Then Ben said: "Sweetie, we don't have a lot of options. You want to get out of here, don't you?"

It was meant to be a rhetorical question but she answered it anyway. "What if I don't?"

Her question was impulsive; she didn't want to stay in Briarcliff. But she also didn't relish the idea of living at their beck-and-call on the outside either.

Ben could sense her challenging him and opted to back off. "If you don't then... you don't. But I'm pretty sure you'd rather be sleeping in your own bed and wearing your own clothes."

Violet pressed her lips together briefly. He was too good at this. "I don't want to be here," she relented after a moment. "It's awful. I don't know how either of you can stand to work here. There's lots of good people here—innocent people!—and the staff here treat them like shit."

Both of her parents had plenty of their own experiences to back up what their daughter said and couldn't dispute her assessment. Talking about it openly made Vivien nervous and she glanced over at the guard at the door. He was looking at a magazine.

"All the more reason to work really hard on getting out of here," Ben said encouragingly, hoping to motivate his daughter with her own passion.

"You don't get it, dad," Violet said emphatically; loud enough to draw attention from the guard. "I'm not like you. I can't just.. leave this place and pretend like I didn't see the shit that happens here." She noticed the guard watching then and leaned in, lowering her voice but not the emphasis. "These people have to pay for what they're doing to the patients they're supposed to be helping."

"That's something we should talk about outside of the hospital," Vivien said, nodding her head to further reinforce the point.

"There'll be time for that later," Ben added, not wanting to give Violet more fuel for her ire. "Right now you need to focus on doing what your doctor tells you. Can you do that for me, Vi?"

The teen sent him a flat look. He had that puppy dog face on, the sad blue eyes face that melted everyone; even her, to a degree. She hated that he could do that.

"Yeah," she grouched. "Fine. Whatever." Then something occurred to her and she lost the attitude. "Hey. Do you guys think you could send me some of those little spiral notebooks and pencils? Like. Golf pencils. Small. So they're easy to put in my cupboard."

"Sure, honey," said Vivien. "I'll send some up as soon as I get home."

"Time's up," the guard announced.

The Harmons said their goodbyes. Despite her surliness, Violet got a little watery-eyed when it came time to let the guard escort her back to the ward. When the ward's heavy iron door squealed shut behind her, a weight settled on her spirit. She was back in the land of midnight bed checks and communal showers.

No matter what the paperwork said, Violet knew she was in prison.

—

"What'll you think will happen?" Tate asked.

He and Violet were in his room, sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed. She had sought him out after her meeting with her parents, in need of distraction. It wasn't private but it sort of felt that way. Tate had the zoetrope and was fitting his latest cartoon into the spindle. She had told him all about her visit.

"I don't know," she said. She was working on a cartoon of her own, drawn with a nub of a pencil she'd swiped from art therapy. "I don't get the feeling they're anxious to let anybody go. Which is stupid, as crowded as this place is."

"Doctor Thredson said something about work release or something but it sounded a lot like that one plumber guy," said Tate. He gave the zoetrope a test spin and smiled when the animation looked like it should.

"I think he was an electrician," Violet corrected. "But I know what you mean. I don't want to be some slave to their fucked up system. I told my parents that."

Somewhere down the hall, someone started wailing like they were being beaten. Both teens fell silent briefly, assessing whether it might be tied to a potential threat to them. When the sobbing faded away, they stirred again.

Tate handed her the zoetrope. "I wouldn't mind working for Doctor Thredson," he said. "But not like that."

Violet put down the pencil nub so she could take the old fashioned toy. She gave it a spin and looked through the slits as they whizzed by. A raven flapped by on the strip of paper, black wings pumping up and down. It would have been elegant but for one detail.

"Is it... pooping?"

Tate grinned and both cheeks dimpled. He looked proud. "It was bored just flying. It wanted to tag something."

"Well," Violet said, unwittingly nodding like her mother did when she didn't understand something Violet did but wanted to support her. "It's different."

"What did you make?" Tate asked, peeking over at her paper.

"It's not done yet," she responded. "It's going to be Santa flying across the sky in his sleigh." She quirked a crooked smile. "He won't be pooping on anyone."

Tate laughed and that made her laugh a little too.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

True horror story: There were asylums back in the mid-50's to mid-60's that had weird work-release programs. Patients were released who shouldn't have been in the sanitarium to begin with. They often had skills the asylum found useful, so they made it part of the release requirement that the patient check in regularly and hold a job at the asylum. Some patients fled the state after a couple of weeks but some, including an unfortunate electrician who was never paid, were stuck serving the hospital for the rest of their lives.

Next time: Exorcising demons and outing snitches. Fun times!


	3. Chapter 3 - Exorcism and Exposition

"God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this servant of yours, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness."

The words the Reverend Monsignor intoned were spoken over the bed Heather was bound to. The priest was dressed in the traditional white surplice and purple stole the exorcism ritual required. The patient's wrists and ankles were secured with medical restraints. The procedure was being overseen by the priest, Sister Jude, and Dr. Thredson. The latter was there partly in protest of the archaic ritual.

The doctor objected strongly to the whole affair. What they saw as possession, he saw as multiple personality disorder. His arguments had fallen on deaf ears, however, so for the girl's sake he'd agreed to be there. He couldn't stop his overzealous employers but he could make sure they didn't hurt the traumatized teen, who'd already been through so much in the name of religion.

"Why are you doing this?" Heather asked, bewildered. "I didn't do anything!"

Sara was scared but she couldn't let go. Letting go of Heather meant going back to the dark place where the monsters were. Nothing could be worse than that, not even being tied to the bed by the grownups.

"Can I please give her a sedative?" Dr. Thredson petitioned. "A mild one? Just something to relax her so—"

"No, doctor," interrupted Sister Jude so the priest wouldn't have to stop the ritual.

Monsignor Howard sprinkled the bound girl with Holy Water. The cold water startled her and made her twitch, a reaction he read as being that of a demon to sanctified liquid. Further justified, he felt his resolve galvanize. He raised the Bible he held and his voice strengthened. "Depart, then, impious one, depart, accursed one, depart with all your deceits, for God has willed that man should be His temple!"

Sara knew the man was talking to her and that scared her more. She didn't understand some of the words he used but his tone was clear. "Please don't hurt me!" she exclaimed and burst into tears.

"Don't listen to it," Monsignor Howard ordered the other adults. He sprinkled them with Holy Water as well. If they flinched at all, he didn't notice. "It will try to play on our sympathies; to trick us."

"This isn't right," muttered Thredson. They weren't physically hurting the girl but he was concerned about what the lasting impact on her mental state might be.

The priest went back over to the bedside where he reached for the girl. She squealed and tried to pull away from him but she couldn't, bound as she was. When he touched her, his hands were cool and strong. He went through a lengthy litany then, reciting sentence after sentence, invoking God for all manner of goodly purposes. After each sentence, Sister Jude chimed in like a Greek chorus, as per the ritual.

There followed an exhaustive series of prayers, recitations and echoes. It was tedious and required the priest to throw more Holy Water on the girl, and touch her with a cross and a medallion of St. Andrew. It was so tedious, the girl dozed off a couple of times, which didn't help her case.

The whole process took nearly two hours and was about as exciting as Sunday mass for Thredson. Not that he wanted anything to happen, but the whole thing just confirmed his feelings that the ritual was nonsense.

"What is your name?" Monsignor Howard said.

"Heather," the girl answered drowsily. She just wanted everyone to go away and leave her alone. She didn't even care at that point if they left her tied up.

"What is your name?" the priest pressed.

Sara squirmed. "Heather! Leave me alone!"

Timothy interpreted that as a sign the demon was weakening. "What is your name?" he demanded.

"Please! Leave me alone!" Sara looked over at Dr. Thredson. He was the only person who might help her. "Please let me go! Make them let me go, doctor, please!"

"Don't listen to her!" Monsignor Howard commanded, rallying his spiritual strength for what he perceived as the heart of the battle.

Oliver looked from the bound girl to the holy man. He found the ritual disgusting but as of yet had no real reason to put a stop to it. By Briarcliff's standards, the treatment was well within the realm of acceptable. So he folded his arms and stood there looking dour.

Seeing her only hope of salvation snuffed, Sara gave a piteous cry and began to sob.

"What is your name?" the priest demanded again.

"Sara!" the girl wailed, forgetting herself in her moment of hysteria.

Oliver straightened, surprised. Sister Jude looked elated. The priest set his jaw in determination and put his hands on the girl again. He started to pray again, not minding that Heather was sobbing uncontrollably.

When he finished, he said a strong "Amen!" that Sister Jude echoed. He withdrew then, joining the nun and Dr. Thredson, though his eyes remained on the possessed girl.

"It's weakening," he said in a low tone. "It's still lying but it's resorted to Biblical names now. Next time we'll be in a better position."

"Next time?" Thredson blurted.

"Yes," answered the priest. "This is a complicated process. This isn't going to resolve in one session."

The doctor was struck by the irony of how similar the mindset was to that of his own field. He sighed and looked at Heather, who had lapsed into a softer mewling cry. "Can she have a sedative now?"

The Reverend Monsignor looked over at her as well. He weighed the matter then said: "Yes, I suppose that would be all right now. Nothing too strong."

...

John was a nervous wreck. He was trying not to pace but he couldn't sit still either. So he kept sitting down and getting back up again, moving around a bit before sitting down again.

"I can't believe they're all gone," he said woefully. He pawed at his hair. "They never cared about my notebooks before. Not in all these months. Why would they take them now?"

Billie Dean looked at the man with a mixture of sympathy and concern. "Maybe they'll give them back."

Heather, who was seated beside her, made a twitchy look but managed to stop herself nay-saying the woman outright. She had been on edge ever since the exorcism. She didn't trust any of the asylum staff anymore.

"No, it's not that," John said, waving a hand. He was up again. "They took _all_ of them, except the one I had on me. I wrote a lot. A _lot_. If you just.. if you look at the top ones from the cupboard, it doesn't matter. That's just crap about people doing boring things. Art therapy. That sort of thing. The bottom ones are the real stuff. The bad stuff. The stuff I was going to give to my editor to expose this place."

A naked old man wandered by muttering to himself and Billie Dean noticed again how crowded the commons had gotten lately. "Did you say anything about how they're cramming people in this joint?"

It was meant sardonically but John nodded. "Overcrowding. Patient abuse. Staff abuse. It's all in there."

The small group got quiet then. They all knew what serious business that was. John sat down beside Harvey again, who offered him a cigarette. He started to wave it off then changed his mind.

"Maybe they won't read all of it," Heather suggested hopefully. "You said you wrote a lot."

John nodded, appreciating the kind words, but he wasn't really reassured. The chances of someone randomly grabbing the wrong one was all too great. "If anything happens to me," he said seriously. "Please tell my story?"

"Of course," said Billie Dean. She tried to look reassuring. "I'm sure it'll be okay. It's just the ramblings of a crazy man, right? Surely they won't take it seriously."

...

Only they did take it seriously.

Thredson had skimmed through the books first and discovered the serious writings in the back notebooks. He removed portions he found that he was personally mentioned in and destroyed those pages. Then he handed the lot over to Sister Jude, who had requested he do so as soon as possible.

Indomitable, the nun devoted several hours to reading the elongated scrawl in the Steno notepads. It took time sorting out which came next and the first three were so dull, she almost quit. Then she reached an unnatural end to one journal and couldn't find where it picked up. She flipped through all of them and none of them picked up mid-sentence where the previous journal had left off.

She thought perhaps Dr. Thredson had accidentally missed one, so she went by his office but he wasn't there. Not knowing where he was, she didn't want to waste time waiting around for him and she didn't want to have to walk back either so she went in and looked for herself.

The missing notebook wasn't to be found among the file folders and papers arranged on his desk. She approved of the tidy way he kept his workspace and thought it might make finding the notebook easier.

Sister Jude tugged open the bottom desk drawer but it only held more file folders, full to bursting. So she tried the shallow drawer on the other side. There were the expected complement of office supplies but behind the scissors and paperclips she saw some Polaroids. Curious, she pulled them out and looked at them.

She wasn't sure what she was looking at, at first. Pictures of a person seated at a table, glowering at the camera. A closer picture of the same showed Jude it was a woman. There was a third one taken from behind the lady that chilled the nun. In that last photo, she could see the woman's hands were bound behind the chair. On the wall opposite the table was a small mirror and the picture-taker had caught himself in the photo.

It was Thredson: Despite the hideous mask he wore in the picture, Sister Jude recognized his hair and the shirt he was wearing. He'd worn it to work just two days prior. The mask he wore looked like a wilted human face.

She suddenly realized what she was looking at and dropped the photo in shock. It fluttered to the floor where it landed face-up.

Sister Jude had discovered who the Bloody Face murderer was.

—

It had been a long shift for Thredson. He had far too many patients assigned to him and not enough time to spend with the ones that needed it most. It wasn't guilt he felt; it was frustration. He couldn't feel like a confident, competent doctor if he couldn't keep track of his patients or keep them from being stowed in coat closets. He was stewing over how he could convince the Monsignor to hire another therapist on his way back to his office. He needed to grab his coat and gloves before heading home.

He was surprised to find his office populated when he got there. Reverend Monsignor Howard was there, as was Sister Jude, who gave him a vile look of reproach when he entered. There were also two policemen there. Sound behind him drew the doctor's attention over his shoulder and he could see a couple of the hospital's orderlies had closed in on the doorway and were watching from the hall.

"What's going on?" he asked, a near-smile curling his lips. He wanted to believe it was some sort of prank.

"Oliver Thredson?" one of the cops asked, reaching for the cuffs at his belt.

"That's him," Sister Jude was quick to affirm.

"I'm Doctor Oliver Thredson," Thredson responded, ignoring her. His heart was racing and the hint of smile was gone. "What's this about?"

"You're under arrest," the cop said and pulled the cuffs out. The other two officers looked at the ready as their partner approached the doctor.

"For what?" Thredson demanded.

"We've got a whole laundry list of charges, bub," the cop said as he reached for the man's arm. "You're wanted for murder, rape, kidnapping, false imprisonment... and anything else we can think of to throw at you. You sicko."

He grabbed hold of Thredson, who felt a surge of adrenaline. He wanted to tear away and run but he was surrounded and vastly outnumbered. Resisting now would only injure him and make him look guilty.

"I really don't understand what this is about," he said and let the cop put the handcuffs on him. "But I would like to speak with a lawyer. And can I have my coat if we're going outside? It's freezing."

Sister Jude snorted but she'd been told by the police not to say anything to the suspect as it might jeopardize their case against him. The cops had the incriminating photo so she couldn't even wave it in his face like she would have liked to. She had to settle for stabbing him with a superior look.

He didn't even notice as he was being led away. He was too busy making sure the panic he felt didn't register on the outside. He needed to keep up an innocent front till he could find out exactly what they thought they had on him.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I researched the official exorcism ritual of the Catholic church for this portion of the story. It really is that dull, in my opinion. If anything, I still made it more exciting than it actually is. We're talking HOURS of reciting prayers and waving crosses—and most don't "take" the first few times! I think the idea is to bore the demonic presence out of the host.

Next is Thredson's trial and we'll see how Tate gets along without his favorite doctor. Hint: He's not thrilled.


	4. Chapter 4 - Pleas of Insanity

Investigators found a shocking amount of evidence at Thredson's home, not the least of which was the setup he had Constance trapped in. After they freed her she was transported to the hospital where she gave them a complete recount of everything he'd put her through.

The trial was immediate and only took two weeks. Witnesses were called. Hundreds of pieces of evidence were displayed. There were five dead women and one survivor who had suffered at the hands of Bloody Face. Constance was a star witness: She was grateful for the chance to expose the man's actions, describing in uncomfortable detail how he raped and pretended to breastfeed from her.

In the end, however, Oliver Thredson was found "not guilty by reason of insanity". Ironically, Constance's detailed testimony of the way he behaved while they were alone worked against the Prosecution. The Defense attorney was able to successfully argue that no sane man would be able to pantomime normal living while holding a person securely against their will and subjecting them to what he'd done to Constance—and other women, based on the photos confiscated from the basement.

Instead of prison time, Oliver Thredson was remanded to the custody of the very place he'd been working for. Despite attempts to keep his delivery discreet, a few reporters were still at Briarcliff's back door when he was transferred to the hospital. The quick snapshots they were able to catch would be all over the news for the following weeks.

He was put into solitary confinement, well away from his former patients. Staff were instructed not to tell any of them that he was there. So his patients weren't told anything about his departure; nothing at all.

...

It was crowded in the last shower stall of the hydrotherapy room, with Tate and Violet wedged in there together. Her back was against the tile wall, her arms around his neck. He had his arms around her waist. The small space encouraged the embrace and they stole little kisses now and then as they talked in low tones about nothing in particular. Pretending they were alone.

Only they weren't. The shower curtain slid open with a rough rattle, startling them both.

There was Max, looking unimpressed. "All right," he said, reaching for Tate's shoulder. "Break it up, you two. This ain't no kissing booth."

When the orderly put a hand on him, Tate pulled his shoulder away. He didn't like the man touching him for any reason. It wasn't the first time the stocky orderly had interrupted his alone-time with Violet and the memory of the last time hadn't been faded by the medication he was on.

"Out," Max ordered with a smirk. He jerked his thumb to indicate the direction they should go.

The teens piled out of the shower stall. Violet started toward the door, Tate right behind her. Max followed them and gave the boy a push to spur him on. It was too much for the Tate's nerves. He turned and swatted at the guy. He wasn't even trying to hit him, really. He just sort of flapped his arm at the orderly in a 'get off me' way and suddenly Max had him in a hammerlock, his arm pinned in the center of his back.

"Move," Max said when Violet paused.

She stepped out into the hall and the orderly maneuvered Tate out.

"I didn't do anything!" the teen objected, torn between a snarl and a whine. "Come on, man!"

"You know better than to take a swing at me, sunshine."

Violet looked on, hating feeling so helpless. "Max, please," she said, hoping maybe if she turned on some sugar he might let Tate go. It might mean doing things she didn't want to but it was better than the road they were on. "Didn't you say next time you were on shift, you were going to show me the Death Chute?"

Tate sent her a peculiar look. He also stopped passively resisting, which actually helped him breathe as Max eased his hold some.

"Yeah," Max said, tempted. "But I'm going to stick this little shit in the quiet room first. Meet me by the nurse's station. Come on, sport." He steered Tate down the hall, toward the men's ward.

That's when Violet spotted Shelley. The blonde girl was right around the corner, snickering into her fist and looking like the cat that ate the canary. Violet felt a surge of rage as she pieced together what must have happened. The other girl had seem them leave the commons together. She likely had followed, saw where they went, and got jealous. Then she went and got Max to come rain on their private time.

"You bitch!" Violet growled and marched over to where the other girl was.

She intended to yell at her or accuse her but when she got there and Shelley settled that superior, smug look on her, Violet snapped. Her hand lashed out and connected with the taller girl's cheek, hard. It made a satisfying smack and though it stung her palm, it felt incredibly good to Violet.

Shelley's pale eyes flashed. She opened her mouth to say something but words failed her in her moment of outrage. So she defaulted to retaliation and reached for Violet's stringy brown hair. The other girl reared back, reading the move, but Shelley was able to catch a small fistful. She gave the brown strands a strong yank and the brawl was on.

It was an imbalanced fight: Where Shelley slapped and scratched and pulled hair, Violet punched and bit. The scuffle quickly drew attention, both from patients in the hall and other orderlies who rushed in to break things up.

The girls were pulled apart, panting and still raging. They were both difficult to corral, both screaming insults at each other and hopping about like fighting roosters. They were no match for Briarcliff's staff, though, and both girls soon found themselves in strait jackets and dumped individually in small rooms that were serving as quiet room space due to overcrowding.

The room Violet found herself in looked like a closet. Someplace lab coats might go, to judge from the evidence of hanging poles left in the walls. The actual poles had been removed but the sockets remained. A lone clear bulb high above provided the tiny space with amber light. It was stuffy but at least it wasn't cold.

Violet lay there for a long time on the hard concrete floor, wondering how long she would be there. After what felt like an hour it occurred to her that it was possible she could get lost in the large hospital. What if they forgot what closet they put her in? There was no water in the tiny space. No drain either. If she needed to use the bathroom, things would get really gross.

To distract herself from her fate, she worried about Tate for a while instead. She knew he hated Max, though she didn't know the details behind the animosity. She didn't need to. She had plenty of her own reasons to hate him. She hated herself a little, too, for using him to make life better for herself at Briarcliff. But only a little. The place was living hell and if she didn't use everything she could to get ahead, the place would gnaw away at her till there was nothing left. Just like the "Doom" lady foretold.

She dozed off eventually, into an uncomfortable sleep. She woke fitfully as the floor was too hard to really relax on and the light was too bright. Still, she startled awake when the door swung open. Lifting her head, she saw white orderly pants.

Max clucked his tongue. "Somebody's been a naughty girl."

Violet didn't like the way he said that. She sat up but it was an awkward process without the use of her arms. "I slapped Shelley. That's not such a crime, is it?" She gave him a flirty little smile. "I mean. You've wanted to slap her too, I'm sure."

He snorted a laugh because it was true. "That nympho's a handful," he agreed.

He came all the way into the closet and pulled the door shut behind him. Violet's heart sank. She'd been hoping if she played nice, he would let her out. But he was reaching for his belt buckle. She swallowed and tried to shore up her acting skills.

"Do you think maybe you could... let me out of here?" She fidgeted and threw him what she hoped was an appealing look.

It was appealing to him, for all the wrong reasons. He liked the way she looked in the strait jacket, all strung out and big eyed. He undid his fly and licked his lips. "Sure, princess," he said. He dropped to a knee. "Just gotta take care of some business first."

Violet didn't resist as he pushed her back down. It was easier not to, in the strait jacket. She looked up at the corner of the ceiling and tried not to feel it as he shoved his cock into her. It was like he said: It was just business. When he was done getting off, he would let her out of the little closet and she could work on forgetting this moment. Like so many other moments.

She tried to tune out reality by thinking of a song but the only thing she could bring to mind was 'Dominique'—the song that always played in the common room.

...

Although Tate only had a formal session with Dr. Thredson once a week, he had been spending every third day helping the doctor in his office as Occupational Therapy. The day after Thredson's arrest, he was supposed to go to the man's office but Byron took him to the bakery instead.

"I don't work in the bakery anymore," Tate tried to tell him.

"You do now," Byron said, not interested.

Tate wanted to press the issue but the guy was already leaving. The teen looked around and, spying Violet, headed over to where she was already rolling out dough.

"Hey," he said, throwing on a smile.

She smiled too but she also looked confused. "What're you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Byron fucked up. Dr. Thredson can chew him out later." He grabbed a pin and started working. The nuns patrolled regularly and he wanted to enjoy his time with Violet, without a nun spoiling it.

"I started sleeping in the bed," Violet told him. "They stuck a new lady in the room with me so..."

"What a drag." Tate made a sympathetic face. "I guess you were right about her being gone for good."

Violet hadn't wanted to believe that Rosemary had vanished but it was impossible to deny now that she had a new roommate. She didn't want to dwell too much on it so she added: "My dad sent me a bunch of little notebooks. I thought we could write stories. You know? I could start one, then give it to you, and then you could add to it and give it back."

Tate's smile grew more genuine. "I like that." Then he winced. "Just can't let anybody catch me with it. I'm on the shit list since that stupid thing with Max."

"That was fucked up," she said supportively. "Shelley's the reason he showed up. The bitch ratted us out."

"Why would she do that?" Tate asked, genuinely at a loss.

Violet glanced at him then shrugged and started cutting her rolled dough into round biscuits with the tin cutter. "Jealous. She wanted it to be her in there with you, I'm sure."

"Oh." Tate blinked.

"Get to work!" Sister Agnes snapped at him.

He sent her a dark sidelong look but stepped up the pacing, rolling his dough wad faster. "I'm going to tell her to back off."

Violet looked uncertain. "Good luck with that."

"I can be pretty persuasive," he smiled.

—

Tate spent another day in isolation after scaring the hell out of Shelley. He waited till evening and crept up on her in the hall after dinner, not entirely sure what he was going to do until he was right behind her. Then, suddenly inspired, he seized her in much the same fashion Max had done him the other day. He didn't yank quite as roughly but he wasn't exactly gentle either.

"Ow!" she objected, even though he knew he wasn't hurting her.

"You got me thrown in time out," he growled in her ear.

Knowing who had her stopped Shelley from the scream she was readying. She turned her head to try and see him but the position was too awkward.

"I didn't mean to," she said in a pouty way.

"I want you to stay away from me and Violet," he said. "We don't need your shit."

"You needed my 'shit' when you fucked me."

He rolled his eyes. "God, you're worse than the record in the commons. It was one time, Shel. Once." He let her go and gave her a shove, making her stumble. "Leave us alone."

Shelley massaged her shoulder and sent him a hurt, angry look. "You're a real asshole. You know that?"

He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's what the guy in the stairwell of the clock tower said. Right before I shot him."

It was bullshit. Tate didn't remember saying anything to anybody. He only said it to spook the blonde girl—and it worked. Her eyes got round and she frowned at him. She was trying to gauge how serious he was. He just stared at her until she walked away.

Satisfied that he'd gotten her off his back, he went back to the common room. Five minutes later, a pair of orderlies were knocking him senseless with their batons.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

If Tate spends any more time in an isolation cell, they should just assign one to him. Would save everyone some time.

The overcrowding in Briarcliff is based on multiple locations. Just about every asylum, in fact, went through some period where they had way more patients than they should. In some, like Pennhurst and Waverly, they had so many patients and were so understaffed, some patients would be dead for over a week before any of the staff would notice. One woman lay on the floor of her cell for so long, her body left a permanent print on the concrete.

Next time: Tate gets a new doctor! And Thredson gets integrated into the system.


	5. Chapter 5 - One-on-One Treatment

"Did you threaten her?" the skinny, balding doctor asked.

He was sitting at a small desk, across from which Tate was seated. The teen was belted at the wrists and ankles to the chair.

"No," Tate said irritably. "I didn't threaten her. I just told her to leave me alone. I screwed her once and now she won't get off my back about it. We're not fucking married."

"Shelley said you threatened her. Why do you think she would say that?"

"Fuck if I know," said Tate, cursing even more because he could tell it bothered the scrawny man. "Why don't you ask her? Why am I even talking to you? You're not my doctor."

Dr. Steward jotted something down on his legal pad then looked at Tate again. "This isn't personal therapy. Until your case is reassigned, you won't be going to personal therapy."

"Reassigned?" he repeated, not understanding. "Why? I like Doctor Thredson."

The man leveled a flat gaze at him and didn't say anything for a moment. "You're being reassigned. If you have any questions, you can make an appointment to speak with Doctor Heath."

Tate didn't like that answer. "That's bullshit," he accused, offended. "You can't just take my doctor away! I was making progress. I had a job and everything!"

"You have a job in the bakery," Dr. Steward said.

Another statement Tate didn't like. He didn't like this whole conversation or the guy he was having it with. He didn't like the belts that were restraining him. He didn't understand why he had to talk to this loser if this wasn't personal therapy. So he decided he was done talking.

The man looked back down at his legal pad. "Have you had sexual relations with other patients?"

Tate just stared at him.

The doctor looked over and arched his patchy brows expectantly. When it was clear the patient wasn't going to respond, he noted that and asked again: "Have you had sexual relations with other patients, Tate?"

The teen shifted in his chair, looked Dr. Steward in the eye and said nothing.

"Being difficult won't help you," the doctor said but he didn't really seem to care. He just wrote more on his pad, then called the orderlies to come take Tate back to his room.

—

Three days later, Tate was taken down to the children's unit where he was surprised to find himself belted to a chair in a tiny yellow office there.

"Hey, Doctor Harmon," he grinned crookedly. "Long time, no see."

Ben looked at the teen slouched in the chair across the desk from him. He made a quick smile then he lit a cigarette. "Do you know why they sent you here?"

Tate tipped his head, trying to guess the doctor's game. A corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, dimpling his cheek. "Don't tell me I'm being transferred to the juvie ward." He meant it as a joke but was seized by the sudden fear that they might actually do that. He didn't want to be put in with a bunch of bed-wetters and babies.

"No, you're not being transferred." Ben's smile resurfaced at the genuine worry Tate displayed at the idea. He got serious quick though. "They've reassigned your case to me."

"You?" Tate was surprised.

"There's a shortage of doctors." Technically accurate, though Ben omitted the fact that neither Simms nor Steward wanted to deal with the young man.

"Isn't that, like, a conflict of interest?"

Ben shrugged and tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'd like to think I'm professional enough to manage your case without a conflict."

Tate's brows crept up. He knew he shouldn't antagonize the guy but it was so tempting. "Even after Violet..?"

"I think I'm the perfect person to talk to about everything that's been going on in your life, Tate," Dr. Harmon said matter-of-factly. "Especially after what happened with Violet."

The teen licked his lips and shifted in the chair. "Do you think maybe you could take these belts off so I could have a cigarette?"

Ben studied him for a moment then flexed another quick smile. "I'll free one of your hands."

"Thanks," Tate responded, rolling his eyes a little. "I'm not gonna do anything. You know that."

"No, Tate," said the doctor. "I don't know that." He got up and came around and unbelted the boy's left hand. Then he lit a cigarette and handed it to him. He leaned back against the desk and looked down at the patient. "What happened that night?"

He had formulated his own ideas based on things he had heard but he wanted to hear from Tate what his experience was.

Tate sucked on the cigarette. "I don't really remember," he said, opting for honesty.

The night itself had never been very clear for him, as messed up as he was, and with so much time and medication between him and then, the memory was even fuzzier. Trying to focus on it only brought hazy dream-like images that made little sense. Cops and Violet and rain. Music. A dead man. He frowned and hit the cigarette again.

"I think maybe Violet thought she was saving me. From surgery, you know?"

Ben moved the ashtray to where Tate could reach it. It was a small, lightweight ceramic thing with Lucky Strike printed on the bottom. "How has she been lately?"

Tate cocked his head and grinned. "Are you trying to use me to spy on your daughter?" He held his hand up to ward off the look the doctor gave him. "It's cool! I'd spy for you, Dr. Harmon. She's okay, I guess. The staff doesn't treat her any worse than the rest of us. She showed me that thing you gave her. The zoetrope? We've been making little cartoons for it. It's pretty neat."

A detail Ben hadn't counted on but it gave him an unexpected lift. "I don't want you to spy on her," he clarified, for the record. "I was just curious to know how she's doing. They don't let her mother and me visit much."

Tate made a sympathetic face and exhaled smoke. "Yeah. They're pretty tight with that shit. I still haven't seen my mom. But that's because I don't want to. Not yet."

"Oh? Why?"

The teen shrugged and sucked on his cigarette some more. "I don't want to see how she looks at me." He laughed because that sounded stupid out loud. "She gets this look, see? When I really fucked something up. It's.. I don't know. It's like... I broke her dreams or something."

Ben put out his cigarette after a final drag. "It bothers you when she's upset?"

Tate looked at him like he was high. "Well, yeah. I mean." He blinked and chewed on his lower lip briefly. He hadn't thought about the answer. It just popped out. Thinking about it confused him. "I guess it does. Shouldn't it?"

"It should," agreed the doctor. He went back around the desk and sat down. He was recording the session so wasn't bothering much with writing but he wanted to note the fact that Tate expressed empathy—and his reaction to doing so. "When someone we know is unhappy, it's natural to want to help them feel better. So it bothers us to see others upset. Especially if we feel like we're the cause. It motivates us to make positive changes."

He knew what had happened to Constance and while he would love to expose Thredson for the fraudulent son of a bitch he was, Ben knew Tate would not benefit from knowing about what happened. Not yet. He would find out soon enough.

"So I guess in that way I'm normal," Tate grinned. "Nice to know I got one thing in common with my fellow man." He waggled his brows then hit the cigarette.

"What makes you say that?"

The teen shrugged and made a face. "Nothing really. I mean. It's not exactly news that my brain doesn't work like other people's. It's why they cut me open." He rubbed his temple and got smoke in his eyes.

Dr. Harmon tapped his pad of paper with his pen. "They operated on you to remove the tumor that would have killed you. Of course the hope was that the surgery would help with the various symptoms..."

"Oh, it has!" Tate assured, sitting up straighter. "I don't have the headaches anymore. All the drugs they've got me on's fixed the sleep thing. A little too good, if you know what I mean?" He was hoping the doctor might reduce his medication more with a few hints dropped. "But yeah. I think I'm doing better. It's kind of hard to tell sometimes though. The people here'll drive you crazy even if you aren't. They're packing people in like sardines. You know? I got some guy in my room now that talks to himself all the time. It's really hard to sleep like that."

It was even harder to get in any 'alone' time, which really sucked but he figured he save that complaint till he had a better sense for how empathetic the doctor was to his cause. The drugs were more important.

"So..." Doctor Harmon said, looking at his notepad. "You're sleeping too much because of the medication but your roommate's keeping you awake?"

Tate blinked owlishly. He hadn't realized that's what he said. "Well. No. I mean." He sucked on the cigarette and tried to sort out what it was he was trying to say. "It's like I'm tired all the time. Even if he's not keeping me awake and I get plenty of sleep, the next day I still feel tired. It sucks."

"We'll see about adjusting your medication," Ben said.

It was a hollow statement; he knew exactly what Tate was on and had no immediate plans of changing it. As far as he could see, what his patient was on was barely keeping his outbursts under control.

...

 **Late December**

After nearly a week, some of the strangeness of being a patient in the facility he used to work at was beginning to wear off for Oliver Thredson. The sedatives helped, but every time he saw one of his former colleagues, he grew agitated. He hated that they were free and he wasn't. He could see the disdain in Dr. Freeman's expression when he assessed Oliver as a patient. It was humiliating!

They kept him in isolation during that time, in a padded cell. They had to move a patient to free the room but his case took priority over crowded cells. The other patient was moved to the closet Violet had been stowed in before and Thredson was left in the white room, with only the ridiculous viewing gown for cover. He suspected his former coworkers were deliberately trying to demean him.

On his sixth morning there, he could hear the chapel bell ringing, signaling mass. By then he would have gladly gone as it would have meant doing something other than staring at the same four walls. He had slept all he could, even sedated, so he paced the perimeter of the small cell. He wasn't crazy but he would surely get that way if they made him stay in the tiny room much longer.

The door squealed open, interrupting his self pity session. He looked over and saw one of the orderlies, Patrick. Breakfast was well over and Thredson knew he wasn't eligible to go to church.

"You've come to mock me, too, I suppose," he said. He drew himself up proudly despite the way he was dressed.

The orderly looked surprised. "Nice hello for the guy who's taking you to hydrotherapy. But, you know, if you don't want a shower..."

"Wait!" Oliver said. He hadn't gotten a chance to bathe in days.

—

Patrick escorted his former boss down the quiet hall to the cavernous shower room. When they arrived, the orderly took him over to the open shower where high-risk patients had to bathe under supervision. Thredson shot the bigger man a dark look.

"You're not really going to make me use that."

The orderly tipped his head back a little and folded his arms. "I'm hoping you'll do it without me having to make you."

Oliver shut his eyes for a moment to restrain his irritation at being treated like some common lunatic. "Fine," he said and took his glasses off.

He stripped the viewing gown and set it and his glasses on the narrow bench nearby. When he straightened, he bumped into Patrick, who had silently moved right behind him. Thredson turned, expecting the man to back up but he didn't. Their chests touched and Oliver felt a good deal warmer than before, despite being nude in the cold room.

"You know, that offer still stands," Pat said. "It's not like you can get fired now."

Thredson felt the blood rushing to his face and groin. "I don't.. know what—"

The orderly glanced down at Oliver's erection and smiled. "I think you do know. Stop pretending you don't like it. I've been having to stand guard at your personal therapy sessions for months. I've heard what you talk about." His hand cupped the other man's crotch and massaged. When he spoke again, his words were intimately low. "I've watched from the hall while you had your patients masturbate for you on your couch."

"That was self-guided personal therapy," Thredson protested but the words were weak. His heart was pounding too hard and fast for thoughts to flow smoothly.

"Sure it was," Pat smirked.

He didn't say anything more. He just dropped to his knees and closed in on Oliver's cock, swallowing the length so smoothly, the doctor knew he must have done it before. Then rational thought ended as he surrendered to the best blow job of his life.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

So Ben's a liar, Pat's a cock-sucker, and Tate's a pain in the neck. The guys gotta be themselves.

Dr. Steward is a tweak on Dr. Seward, from Bram Stoker's _Dracula_. I was watching _Dracula: Dead and Loving It_ at the time I wrote this segment so Tate's lucky he didn't get an enema and get put in a straitjacket. Which is what Mel Brooks' Dr. Seward would have done with a patient like him.

Next chapter's the last one for this Episode. We've got two more eps before this Asylum fic wraps up. If you've been enjoying this and haven't seen my new Murder House: Armageddon season, check it out.


	6. Chapter 6 - Goodbye Girl

Sara was strapped to the bed, still possessing Heather's body. Monsignor Howard stood over her in the hazy gray light, armed with a large wooden crucifix and the holy book filled with the passages he had to recite over her as part of the exorcism. Further away, Dr. Harmon stood by, his brow wrinkled with concern. He didn't believe in the exorcism any more than Thredson had, but he knew a troubled teen when he saw one. He couldn't help seeing Violet there, wide-eyed and fearful, confused and lost. It was almost impossible to swallow his tears. Would his girl, his strong little fighter, end up like this?

The priest started his prayers. He pressed the cross to the bound girl's body and sprinkled her with holy water. It was the same as the first ritual: long and tedious and dull. It took so long, Sara drifted off during the droning litany, roused now and then when Sister Jude chimed in with her Greek chorus of support. It was exactly like last time; Sara couldn't keep the body awake.

The exorcist made the sign of the cross over her and droned on. The world seemed to slow. Behind the nun and doctor, Sara saw movement, moving at normal speed compared to the rest of the slowed-down world. It was a a living shadow and, as it came around to Sister Jude's side, it flickered and resolved itself into a form. Long-limbed, impossibly skinny with claw-like fingers, it was a familiar horror. It moved sideways, like a crab, fixed on her with its large, hollow eye sockets.

She had seen it many times before, but not since she'd taken refuge in Heather's body. She thought of it as 'Thin Skin' because it could shed its outer layer of shadow skin like a shirt. She found that out when she'd been attacked by it and she'd tried to defend herself. The skin came right off in her hands. At the time she'd been in spirit form and the creature had still managed to hurt her in unspeakable ways. She had almost successfully forgotten the encounter. Until now. It seemed emboldened by the priest's prayers or perhaps her bound state.

"No!" Sara shrilled as the thing put a clawed hand on the foot of the bed. "Don't send me back! Please! Please, Father, please!"

Monsignor Howard thought she was reacting to his ritual but she was staring at the shadow monster. "What is your name?"

"Sara! Please let me go! It's going to get me!" She tried to pull free but the straps were too strong.

Hearing the girl use the same name as before, the priest saw victory in sight. He was grateful the thing was weakening and sprinkled more holy water on her. "What is your name?"

"SARA!" the girl screamed, not understanding what else she was supposed to say.

She lapsed into a hysterical fit as the monster climbed atop her bed. The weight of the thing pressed down on the mattress hard enough to dent it. Even the those not possessed could clearly see the path of the thing as it moved up the bed to straddle her.

"PLEASE!" she screamed in terror, yanking so hard on the wrist straps that the whole bed shook.

"Father," Ben interrupted, not at all comfortable with the level of terror the patient was showing. "I want to check her vitals."

The priest fell back a step, Bible raised. Ben moved in but before he could clear the distance to the girl's bedside, she began to convulse violently. Sister Jude gripped her rosary and whispered a prayer.

From Sara's perspective, the creature pulled open her mouth with its claw-like paws. It looked at her with those horrific eye sockets then it stuffed its head down her throat. She choked on it and started to vomit but the shadow thing blocked her throat. For several seconds she couldn't breathe, then it wormed its way down into her intestines.

She began to throw up then and Ben rushed to unstrap her hands so she wouldn't asphyxiate.

"No!" Sister Jude barked but it was too late. He already had one of her hands free and was reaching for the other.

The Reverend Monsignor intercepted the doctor's hand. Ben thought about contesting the issue but there was no time for arguing. So he just rolled the girl over as best he could with only one hand free. Then he worked to clear her breathing passage while the priest continued to pray.

The girl convulsed again as the shadow beast evacuated her system the way it came in. To Heather, it was a lot like vomiting up another human being. It nearly killed her. To the people in the room with her, bile turned to gush of black fluid that all three of them tried to avoid.

"What is your name?" the priest demanded because it was all he had left to lean on.

Thin Skin latched onto Sara's essence and the two of them surfaced briefly, overlapping Heather's face with a shifting amalgam of child and monstrous features.

"DEATH."

The voice was Thin Skin's: Gravel in a blender. It chilled all who heard it.

Heather collapsed then as both spirits left her. Sara screamed as Thin Skin carried her toward the door but the sound only registered in the spirit world.

...

On Thursday, the last of the Lady Butcher's victims' remains turned up. An asylum kennel worker noticed one of the guard dogs gnawing on a particularly large bone. It caught his attention because the stuff the dogs usually got wasn't anything they could fight over: Gristle was the toughest thing they normally got.

It took some doing but the kennel workers were able to get the bone away from the dog. It turned out to be a rib bone belonging to one of the established victims. The rest were soon recovered from a small hole in the floor of the kennel that dog was assigned to.

There was some discussion among senior staff about whether to put the animal down since it had eaten human flesh but in the end, the dog was considered too valuable to euthanize. He would be kept in the high security area just to be safe.

...

On Friday, they transferred Oliver Thredson from solitary to the regular ward. He was a very well-behaved patient and, despite his criminal history, was quickly deemed low risk. They needed the isolation cell for more hard-to-manage patients. It wasn't tricky for the staff to pick a room for him either: They put him in with the other murderer. Convenient, since he hadn't been assigned another cellmate since Dandy had been moved.

Tate was working in the bakery when Thredson was moved into his room, so he wouldn't learn of the transfer till later. Shelley was there, though, and she was keenly curious. She hadn't had any therapy sessions with Thredson but she'd heard rumors about him.

"Hi," she said from the doorway, watching him stow his things in the corner.

Oliver straightened and turned toward her. "Can I help you?"

She smiled and took that as an invitation to come in, so she did. "Must be pretty trippy, being a patient here now, huh?" She wandered over to where the dark-haired man was standing.

His expression tightened. "I'd rather be in prison."

Shelley laughed. "Yeah. More freedom, huh? Less people who know you." She got real close and put her hand on his shoulder. "Nobody to call you 'doctor' though. Wanna play doctor, Doctor?"

He grabbed her wrist and squeezed it firmly, not appreciating the unsolicited personal contact. She met his stern dark gaze with a cool look and defiant lift of her chin, almost daring him to hurt her. The encounter with Patrick in the hydrotherapy room was still preying on him and suddenly he saw a chance at personal redemption.

Thredson yanked her closer by her caught wrist and kissed her hard. She wriggled in surprise then quickly melted against him and eagerly engaged him. The kiss turned sloppy when they tumbled to the bed. The sex that followed was just as sloppy: He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't even take her clothes off. He just pushed up the skirt of her jumper, tugged off her granny panties and shoved his cock in. She was masterfully quiet, accustomed to fast and silent sex when she could get it. It was over in less than three minutes.

After they'd fixed their clothes, Shelley pulled a cigarette from her bra and offered to share it with him as they sat on the edge of the cot. "Too bad you weren't my doctor. We could've had fun all the time."

"I don't sleep with patients," Oliver said. He hit the cigarette and handed it back to her.

"I'm still a patient," Shelley pointed out with a grin.

He favored her a sidelong look. "I'm not a doctor here anymore."

"Did you actually do what they said?" Shelley asked, unable to hold back any longer. "Are you really the Bloody Face killer?"

"No," he lied. "They've got the wrong guy."

They met eyes and for a moment neither said anything. Then Shelley smiled. "That really sucks. Maybe you can appeal."

"Maybe," he agreed.

Neither of them believed it.

...

"I _said_ I'm pregnant," Nurse Karen repeated.

Dr. Heath looked up from where he was working on his patient. "And?"

"And..." Nurse Karen said, expecting him to figure it out. "It's yours."

"I doubt you can be so sure," the doctor laughed.

Karen stiffened. His reaction was the furthest thing from what she'd pictured. She'd figured he would be stunned by the news but would recover with smiles and support. They would talk marriage, to legitimize the infant before birth. It was supposed to be life-changing in a grand way.

"You're the only..." She flushed, embarrassed. "It's yours."

"Prove it."

He locked eyes with her and the young nurse suddenly realized the full implication of what he meant. If she wanted to try to force the issue, it would require going to the courts and getting tests. Her reputation would be ruined beyond repair for having sex before marriage and she would be fired from the hospital. He, on the other hand, would be put on temporary administrative leave publicly and privately congratulated by every man he knew for bagging such a hot little nurse.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and took a step back. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He didn't even look up from his work. "Doing what? I have a job to do. So do you. That's what we're paid for."

"I just want you to do right by our child! I thought you loved me!" Nurse Karen was close to tears. She didn't even care now if she'd be fired. Her world was crumbling around her.

The doctor finished his prep work and grabbed a nearby bone saw. "What on earth gave you that notion?"

He started the saw then, making it impossible for her to respond unless she wanted to shout over the sound of the instrument. The nurse had no interest in seeing whatever it was he was about to do with it anyway so she left the room. She held back her tears as long as she could but at the elevator bank she lost control and broke down in wretched sobs.

Her life was over. Her family would be so ashamed. They would ship her off to one of those depressing convents for unwed mothers. Karen had interned at one briefly and that had been awful enough. So many despondent young women facing bleak futures. She didn't want to be one of their numbers.

She rubbed her belly and thought about the beautiful dreams she'd had of a lacy bassinet and strolls through the park with a white-wheeled pram, her loving husband at her side. It had been so perfect. But the man she'd just been speaking to might as well have been a stranger to her. The man she thought she loved would never shun her like that.

Seeing an instrument tray at the end of the hall, she moved toward it in a trance-like state, going numb inside as her plan solidified. Heath would find her later in Pete's room, covered in blood. She had stabbed her middle several dozen times and used the blood to scrawl out an accusatory message on the wall:

YOU'LL PAY

The doctor looked at the mess and sighed. Then he went and got a gurney. It was his intent to roll her down the death chute to the incinerator at the morgue but when he went to lift her, she groaned.

"Not quite dead yet, my dear?" He gave her a moment's consideration, then scooped her up and put her on the wheeled bed. "Fortunately for you, there's an available room here in Heath's ward."

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Roll credits, cue end music.

Heath's scene was inspired by several legends of pregnant nurses committing suicide (Waverly, Jerome). I planned to have Nurse Karen commit suicide but apparently Dr. Heath has other plans. Not sure what he's going to do with her but it can't be good.

I know that's a pretty grim note to end the episode on but take heart! Next ep's all about **Xmas**. It's time for Christmas presents, the Krampus, and naughtiness under the mistletoe. Just wait till you see what Santa brings Dandy! "Xmas" is the 2nd to last episode in this Asylum AU so you know it's gonna be silent night, deadly night.


End file.
